Harry Potter: Returns Back From Game of Thrones (ASOIAF) - 24

Chapter 24: Dumbledore, When Did You Arrive?

Looking at the ghosts' miserable state—frozen mid-glide with dark energy crackling across their translucent forms—the young wizards' minds raced with anxious speculation. Their parents hadn't explained what the Sorting test actually entailed. Surely they wouldn't be made to duel this terrifyingly powerful boy, would they?

Sorted against such an opponent, they'd surrender immediately, or else be beaten into the ground with knocked-out teeth!

Harry thought the same—these children weren't even close to the same weight class as him.

He'd prioritised using spells on ghosts because they required magical force. For these children, no such trouble was needed. One punch—twenty points of Strength behind it—and they'd crumple like paper.

If the testing involved multiple rounds with combat between young wizards, Harry would advise immediate surrender. Don't fight back. Take one punch and "fall unconscious" convincingly. He considered this mercy, really.

"Mr Potter! Please explain what you've done!"

A shrill voice cut through the stunned silence. Professor McGonagall had returned, her emerald robes swishing sharply as she surveyed the scene.

Her tone carried that same authority Hermione had displayed on the train—still having courage to speak up loudly even when Harry had displayed his overwhelming power.

But Harry was equally confused. "What do you mean? Professor McGonagall, didn't I pass? Weren't these ghosts responsible for testing us?"

"Ah... child, so that's what you thought—" Professor McGonagall hesitated, her stern expression wavering.

"Why would you think we'd make eleven-year-old children fight? Foolish, reckless Potter."

A black-haired middle-aged wizard appeared with such silent suddenness that he seemed almost ghostlike in presence.

Of course, he was actually alive—Harry simply used the comparison instinctively. This person was naturally gloomy, his demeanour suggesting someone whose heart had turned to ashes, living solely on some unknown hope or obligation.

Harry also noticed the man's hair—so greasy it looked like he'd never discovered shampoo.

Didn't the wizarding world have magical shampoo? If Harry remembered correctly, his own family had helped develop such products, though the patents had long been sold off.

More concerning, this wizard harboured such strong malice toward him. The danger index even exceeded Professor McGonagall's—and she clearly lacked significant fighting spirit.

His claim that they wouldn't make children fight felt absurd to Harry, who could clearly sense this person had fighting intent, very much wanting to battle him for three hundred rounds right here at school. The man was simply restraining himself.

Even more disturbingly, this person might be a predatory teacher—Britain had far too many such people hiding in institutions. Because when the man looked at Harry's eyes, there was a strange feeling in his gaze—reminiscence mixed with something else... affection? Obsession?

Whatever it was made Harry's skin crawl.

Harry gripped his wand more tightly.

This wasn't an ordinary opponent. He'd need to strike decisively!

The kingly power at his forehead unsealed, thrumming with barely contained energy.

R'hllor's scar on his right wrist began glowing faintly—Lightbringer remained his ultimate resort.

The ominous black-blue marks on his left hand started spreading like frost across glass, forming vast eerie patterns. Semi-transparent blue javelins began condensing in the air around him, and the corridor temperature plummeted until their breath misted white.

"Potter, your recklessness exceeds my imagination. Do you truly intend to attack me?"

The black-haired professor was genuinely shocked. He'd considered many possible scenarios for their first meeting.

When seeing Harry's face—so painfully like hers—he'd felt the indignant resentment he'd anticipated and prepared for over the years.

But this? He alone hadn't anticipated this violent development.

He knew the Dursleys had raised Harry as just an ordinary little boy, powerless and cowed. The rumours had all been wild exaggerations... or so he'd thought. But the real Harry was like this—silent wandless ice magic condensing deadly projectiles from thin air. The boy radiated lethal intent like a trained killer, not a child.

Could Severus Snape actually defeat him if this escalated?

"Harry, what spell did you use on these poor ghosts?"

Harry whipped around, defensive instincts flaring.

An elderly man who looked rather grandfatherly and entirely unthreatening stood there, currently poking the Fat Friar's frozen ghost form with his wand like a curious child examining an interesting bug.

Harry had seen this man's appearance on collectible cards and in various extracurricular history books.

This was one of Harry's hypothetical potential enemies before coming to Hogwarts—the world's strongest wizard, Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore... when did you arrive? How did Harry not sense his approach?

"First years, now form a line," Professor McGonagall told them, her voice cutting through the tension with practised authority. "Follow me."

Harry had already released the ghosts from petrification and offered sincere apologies. It turned out he'd catastrophically misunderstood—Professor McGonagall hadn't played any malicious tricks. She'd truly just been preparing the Great Hall whilst new students waited. The ghosts had simply passed through on their usual routes.

As for why she hadn't explained what the ceremony actually entailed... that stemmed from a certain mischievous sense of humour shared by the staff.

Fine. Amusing game. Harry would absolutely never reveal the Sorting method to younger students in advance either, when his time came.

At least his high Charisma meant even dangerous spells became non-lethal in his hands. Using what should be deadly magic, like stunning spells, instead. After releasing the harmless petrification, not a single ghost had been permanently harmed—they'd simply been terribly frightened.

It was like how high Stamina prevented him from accidentally turning people into pulp with casual strikes. Skill and control mattered as much as raw power.

Passing through the oak doors, the other years' students were already seated around four long tables. Thousands of candles floated overhead, illuminating the Great Hall with warm golden light that reflected off the enchanted ceiling above.

Ghosts also mingled amongst students at their house tables. Upon seeing that menace Harry Potter enter, they collectively drifted away from his path like smoke dispersing before wind. The newly awakened Peeves actually bowed deeply to Harry, his bells jingling. "Great Mr Potter, you are the true king of chaos and childhood mayhem!"

He flickered a few times and vanished without trace—probably fled to the highest towers to avoid further confrontation.

All students watched the famous Harry Potter with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Worthy of his reputation—causing such spectacular trouble before even officially enrolling.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, seeing stars twinkling against velvety darkness that perfectly mirrored the night sky outside.

This used spatial magic, didn't it? From outside, the ceiling hadn't seemed nearly that high—the internal space had been expanded through enchantment.

Water and fire magic felt quite common. Besides Aguamenti and Incendio, when receiving Divine Power Harry had also gained fragmentary knowledge of ice and fire magic cultivation—possibly just the most insignificant manifestations of R'hllor and the Great Other's eternal struggle, since their conflict could affect entire worlds' seasons.

But space-time magic felt extraordinarily advanced and high-class. Could wizards' spatial manipulation be weaponised for combat? With Harry's Charisma, if he believed it possible, it probably was.

"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside," Hermione whispered beside him, barely containing her excitement. "I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."

Harry glanced at Hermione again and decided firmly, 'You'll be my external brain, my strategic advisor.'

Ron too. Ron had extensive inside sources and family connections, whilst Hermione had consumed countless books. Combining them created the perfect intelligence network—how could he not dominate Hogwarts with such resources?

Professor McGonagall, unaware of Harry's schemes, gently placed a four-legged stool before the assembled first years. Then she produced a pointed wizard's hat, setting it carefully atop the stool.

The hat was extensively patched, visibly worn, and frankly quite grimy.

Harry would believe someone claimed it was several centuries old without question.

Then the hat twisted, a wide rip appearing near the brim like a mouth opening. The Sorting Hat began singing in a surprisingly pleasant voice:

Oh you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

…For I'm a Thinking Cap!

The lyrics continued at length, introducing each of the four houses in turn. Gryffindor's description emphasised bravery, daring, nerve, and chivalry—standing out from the crowd through heroic action!

When mentioning Slytherin, the Hat's tone turned decidedly critical—though fine as potential friends, it emphasised this house contained ambitious, cunning, even treacherous types who'd use any means to achieve their ends.

Did this hat have its own political stance? Or did it simply follow its creators' biases? Why didn't Slytherin students tear its mouth apart in protest?

Come on, don't lose face like this!

Use your boots to kick this insulting hat's arse properly!

Harry looked toward the Slytherin table with curious interest, wondering how they tolerated such yearly public disparagement.